


Old Habits

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Crossover, Futures Without End, M/M, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-31
Updated: 1999-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos uses Spike as a dumping ground. Kronos cameos. And then he goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Not my toys, and I don't need another muse to save my life. Zen wanted this, and since I'd kill for her, this seemed like a small enough tribute. Devo beta'ed it and Amy provided moral support. Thanks, guys.

I remember toothaches.

I remember pushing on the bad tooth, never enough to push the tooth from its socket, but enough for the pain to shock my system into feeling something.

Stalking on nights like this is almost the same thing. The bloody chip in my head's the bad tooth and I enjoy... pushing it.

Most of the time, things go according to plan. A mark walks by, I jump out at him all in vamp, and he pisses himself and coughs up his dough. He gets to escape his brush with death and I get the money for blood and the residual kick of scaring the hell out of someone. It works. Most of the time.

I'm the one who pushes it. I can taste the skin over their pulse point, salty and warm and yielding against my tongue and my teeth as I'm about to sink down into the elastic skin and feel it give and give and give before it yields and breaks the skin and the vein. There's no pleasure yet, no joining, so the mark is trying to get away and holding him down is most of the fun--

The pain radiates from the back of my skull as it follows the vein work in my brain. I choke back a cry and the woman in front of me is shocked numb in terror. The moment I let her go, she runs off; her high heel shoes echoing the pain in my head. If I had fed more the constriction wouldn't have been so bad but I'm dry and the pain makes me lean against the building.

It's getting early, and if I don't feed soon I'm going to have to send myself to bed without any supper. Again.

The night's pickings are slim. Non-existent, in fact. Despite my firm believe that most of the residents of Sunnydale are both dumber than posts and have the memory of may-flies, most of them aren't walking the streets at four a.m. with a sign that says 'suck me' on them, and I wouldn't really touch the ones that do.

I avoid the obvious vamp-bait as being too clingy and worshipful. Sunnydale can't be the Mecca of all things undead and unholy without the wanna-bes. I want... I want...

I want to spit on the street but have to conserve my fluids. Walking helps. A man walks ahead of me, seemingly oblivious, and around here, that's all the reason a fellow needs to get drained.

I look at it as a public service, really, the more I think about it. Letting them off with a warning. I bare my fangs. Doing my bit for humanity and all that rot. I'm feeling positively noble as I reach him. "Don't you know the streets are bloody dangerous this time of night, mate?"

He doesn't panic and he's stronger than he looks. I can't get out of the way fast enough and he gets in a lucky punch... okay, maybe not such a lucky punch and my fangs cut into my cheek and I suck on the blood rather than waste it. Bolting is my only option. Dignified it isn't but I'd rather that than meet Mr. Pointy. I turn around, snarling, but the man backhands me.

The blow drops me to one knee and I react without thinking. I fly at him, fully intending to cause grievous harm and headache be damned, but there's no pain as I connect with him.

He falls back and I follow him down but he turns and slips away from me. He's reaching into his jacket. Instead of a stake he pulls out a bloody sword. I keep my vamp face on, snarling again, but back up as the sword touches my neck.

"A lesser known method of dispatching, but just as effective," the man says. He has an English accent and he speaks lightly, but he's studying me. "What kind of vampire asks questions first? Show me your face."

"Sod off," I snap. I can smell him; his heart is pumping and his veins are completely dilated. The hunger inside me makes my stomach clench and my teeth ache. I lick one of my fangs, angry at myself for dying hungry. He smells human and I'm willing to bet he tastes human. My own body's fired up and I can still hear the way he grunted when I hit him. It's good, despite the hunger. I'm going to die tonight and it's the first time I felt alive since they put in the chip. The irony tastes an awful lot like my own blood.

His hand comes up, the one not holding the sword. He strokes my cheek, and I curl my lip. He's a vampire whore; I should have known he was trolling. He's a better class than the wretches coming for quick hits, but still. A whore's a whore. I didn't see any track marks.

"Show me your face, and I'll let you drink," the man says, offering me his wrist. I stare at it, not able to look away from the pale blue lines under his skin. My stomach clenches and I open my mouth, straining against the sword to feel his skin against my lips.

"Come on, boy," he uses the word as an insult. "You want to taste, don't you? Drink?"

I shake my head. The vamp face slides away, and the whore's staring at me. "Well, I suppose you're pretty enough," he says. He gives me his wrist and pulls the sword back. I drink, from a human for the first time in over a year and the salty taste of his skin made me hard. My entire body flushes as the blood tingles in my mouth. The whore puts his hand over my prick and it is a good thing I'm up against a wall because I can't stand anymore.

/ /

Sand. Hot sand stings my face and my hands and the taste on my lips is familiar. Blood. Thick, sweet blood. I wipe it off my face, trying not to taste it and the disappointment cripples me.

I'm in a dream, or a memory. I look around, and see the wasted village around me. Bodies on bodies. Hacked, mutilated, rended. Bodies. The smell of their blood and their waste and their life wasted is enough to make my knees weak. I almost feel my heart beat with remembered massacres.

I'm in the hands of a master.

/ /

I wake up and I'm in a hotel room. The curtains are drawn, but the crack of light above the window is enough to heat the room. I roll over and jump back as the whore looks up from the chair he has pulled over to the bed.

"Who are you?" I ask and lick my lips. No blood. I'm disappointed.

He's silent, watching me.

"Just tell me what you want, mate. A fuck? Want me to suck you somewhere else? Come on, out with it," I say, throwing my arm over my eyes. My jeans are crusty; I hate that. If I actually sweated I'm sure I would be stinking.

He moves to the edge of the bed. I don't mind not moving; I can do kink. He pulls up my T-shirt and runs his hand up and over my belly. "You're going the wrong way."

He doesn't answer me. His hand comes up over my pecs, rough over my nipples, and suddenly he rakes his nails hard enough to draw blood. I don't have enough blood in me to casually give it away. "Bastard!" I snarl, good mood shattering, but when I go vamp and push him back, it doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt to backhand him either, and it feels great to connect with flesh. I knock him against the wall, hard again in my jeans, and in seconds he is open for me, his beautiful neck exposed and the saliva is thick and salty in my mouth.

I don't feel the stake until it's pressing in between my ribs. "Ah, ah, ah, my pet. Not until I say."

I bang my head against the wall. The pain's blinding but completely external. "Why can I hit you? What are you?"

He moves between my thighs, pressing his hip against me. "You'll find out sooner or later, my pet. Drop your pants."

I hiss at him. "Drop your pants," he repeats. He presses his wrist against my lips and I grab it. There are no puncture wounds. No marks at all. I know I drank from it. He backhands me and I drop his wrist. "Later," he says. He moves against me.

I undo my jeans. "Good boy. Now, kneel down," he says.

"Sod off."

His hands on my shoulder push me down. I should push him back, but I don't. I undo his slacks before he tells me to, but lick his femoral artery instead. The huge quantity of blood just under the skin is making me dizzy. His hands on my head pull me closer. "Go ahead."

It's been a long time since I have to remind myself to puncture and not tear. His white skin gives too easily. He stumbles back half a step as I rip his leg open; a fatal wound for a mortal, but as I suck on him he heals himself. Only my teeth in his artery keeps the bloody pouring.

Sweet blood; ancient blood. I was too hungry to taste it the night before. I can't stop myself humping against his leg like a dog in heat. He wanks himself off next to my ear, the sound of his fist pumping himself is nothing compared to the rush of blood in my head, but the smell of him is making me crazy.

My whole body is hot. Burning, even to my own touch. I break away from his leg for a heartbeat; the blood on my hand is cooler than my skin. He's coming and I'm about to and suddenly I'm up and over and the rush is as good as the blood.

/ /

Same dream/memory. The village is burning now, rolling plumes of smoke wrap around my legs as I walk through it, looking for the last of the survivors. A scream in the distance; one of my brothers have found one. The thought makes me smile.

Burning embers from the thatched roof touch me, hurting and healing almost in the same heartbeat. It's almost pleasant. My skin's tight against my face; the blood's dried.

A man walks over the centre of the village. I smile again. My brother. Kronos. He's pleased with himself; I am pleased for him. He grabs me and kisses me. It's not sexual, not yet, at least. It reaffirms us. "An excellent day's work, brother."

"Seven got away."

"What better way to spread our name? I tell you, Methos, despite what you want, we can't kill them all."

Methos?

Bodies start to burn. The smell of their roasting flesh is revoltingly appealing. "Come, brother. Knowing you, you would like to be cleaned and we have new slaves to break in." He kisses me again. "But do not get so attached this time."

I touch where he was stabbed. He throws his arm over my shoulders.

/ /

I can't move, and he's not much better. His leg has healed by the time we made it back to the bed and he wipes himself off with a towel before joining me. It's past my bedtime any way.

I wake up again around sunset, but for the first time since I can remember, the gnawing hunger I've lived with doesn't wake me up. I stretch, and encounter another body in the bed. It's living and breathing.

"Good morning."

I want to snap something, but damn it if I'm not feeling too bloody content to put the effort out. "Should I know your name?"

"Call me Adam."

I wince. "You got any other names I can call you?"

"You don't like Adam?"

"Bad association."

"Benjamin? Walter?" he pauses for a heartbeat. "Death?"

"I like Death," I say. I roll over to my jacket and grab my pack. "So, who is Methos?"

He narrows his eyes, "Those things'll kill you," he says, but doesn't mention his name again.

I smile, lighting up. "Bit to late for that, innit it?" I inhale and offer it to Death, who turns it down. "Your loss."

"Do you have a name?"

"Spike."

"Spike," he says. He reaches up and pulls back my lips. I let him, and he strokes my eyeteeth with his finger. "You'll make a good pet, Spike."

I snap at him, but he pulls away before I connect with anything. "I'm not your pet," I growl.

"I'd say you are."

I sit up, pinning him down. Healing powers aside, I'm stronger than he is, but he does a... flip and suddenly I'm on my back with the stake to my heart. "You can't sleep with that," I snarl.

"You need me, Spike."

"Need you for what?" I growl. He backhands me and I'm in full vamp, inches away from his neck. Only the stake keeps me from feeding, although to tell you the truth I'm full. Too much red meat after being a vegetarian for so long.

"This," he says. He takes my hand and I'm too shocked to stop him. He takes it to his neck and pushes one of my black fingernails into his flesh. I've honed them down and it doesn't take much to break the skin. Blood wells up in a perfect crescent, not enough to run but enough to make me shiver. I lick up the blood, sucking on it until it heals under my tongue and then again until there's no taste of salt on his skin. I back away.

"In exchange for what, sweetheart?" I ask, sitting back. I wipe my mouth, feeling how swollen my lips are. I couldn't have another bite to save my life.

"You obey me. In all things. You want to fight I'll fight you, but you will bend," his voice sounds distant. "Or is it not in your nature?"

"Where's the catch?"

"You're an untrusting soul, aren't you?"

" I don't have a soul."

Death leans back. "Apparently, that makes the two of us."

"And I'm nobody's boy," I say, getting out of bed. Death puts his hands behind his head and watches me dress.

"You'll be back."

"Take a sodding leap."

Death just smiles at me. I snarl back. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. I could kill him. Easily. I could rip his throat open and leave him to stain his bedsheets crimson. Slamming the door behind me just doesn't have the same effect. I really must be losing it.

It's good to prowl again. Not for food, not for money, just to... prowl. No wonder Angel is so lethargic; blood out of a bag or a bottle is nothing compared to this charged rush in my body. I have to watch myself; I feel so good I'd jump off a building to prove I can fly.

I'm not hungry and there's nothing in my head stopping me from cheap thrills. The marks scatter like chickens before me, but I can't stop the sky from lightening. I return to my crypt, still stuffed with blood, and sleep. It's blissful.

The bliss lasts two days. By the third night, I wake up hungry again. The blood I have stored in the coolers has run out of ice and it's congealed. I throw it away in disgust and go out.

This time it's different. I can't fool myself into believing that I don't want to hurt. I want to feed off dying bodies. I want to bathe in their blood. My head feels like it's about to split into two. It's been far too long since my last blood bath.

I pass other vampires. Most of them are in human face. I can smell the dead blood in them, hear the silence of their unbeating hearts, but mostly it doesn't hurt to think about killing them. The young ones aren't worth the effort. They spring up faster than mini-malls in Sunnydale.

My fang digs into my tongue and I swear, but suck on the blood rather than waste it. This can't go on. I'm hungry. And I dream.

Nothing with the clarity of the visions. It's fuzzy, copies of copies of copies. He's in it, the scarred one, and the need for blood makes me weak.

(Go back to him)

I stop. It's him, the scarred one in the visions. "Get out of my head," I snap, but I'm talking to myself.

I stumble and have to lean against a building for a moment. The... need inside me is sudden and crippling. I stumble away and buy a bag of blood from an underground dealer, but it's not the same thing. The blood's been properly bathed and heated so it feels warm in my hand as I break into the plastic with my fang, but the plastic gives the wrong way and the blood is dead and stale. I throw the bag against the wall and watch as it explodes. I run my hand through it, feel it cool, and decide to hell with it.

I can't stand it.

Death doesn't look surprised to see me. He pulls off the covers, exposing his naked body. I drop to my knees on the bed and he takes my head in his hand. I don't bother to fight. He's hot and sweet under me. He pushes me down; I let him do that, too. His skin resists for less than a heartbeat and then I've punctured it. His hands tighten behind me, but I lap at the welled blood rather than drink and the wound heals under me.

"Don't be a bitch," he growls.

I smile at him, though the blood I've taken is enough to cause hunger pains hard enough to hurt. "Beg me."

"Do as you're told."

"Beg me."

"I could kill you," Death manages.

"But then who will do this?" I ask. I puncture him again, feeling the sweet give. It hurts him; he feels pain. I like the way he gasps. I work my tongue over the wound, enough to keep it open, not enough to pull the blood from him.

"Please," he whispers.

I tear the skin. It opens up and I can't drink the blood fast enough to keep up with it pouring out of him. I drink and drink and drink but he doesn't push me away. When I have enough I try to, but his hands lock over my head and I can't back away. Nor can I stop swallowing. Finally he's drained enough and passes out and I stumble back.

/ /

Blood and more blood. The sand's red for it. I'm red for it. Kronos is beside me, covered in as much blood as I am. A woman is crying somewhere, but it's a weak sound and will be ending soon.

I look over to Kronos, he catches me looking. The dream me, the part that has this as a memory, is sickened. Not by the blood or the pain or the death, but the unchangingness of it all. Another village, another stop, another body count. Kronos' hands are in my hair and he pulls me down for another kiss. I feel him against my hip, he's not going to make it to the camp or to his unwilling slaves.

There's no struggle for dominance. I wonder if he notices its absence. I let him have this one. My knees dig down into the clean sand, past the blood. I let him take me, "All yours, Methos. This is all for you," he says into my hair. Suffering--a fitting tribute to death. I approve, even as he pushes himself into me.

It hurts for the briefest of seconds. We've been doing this for years, my brother and I. I could drown in his affections if I am not careful. Blood, death and seed. Kronos and me. I want him to hurt me, to mark me, to make me bleed. Begin in blood, finish in blood.

He doesn't fail me. His teeth break the skin on my shoulder. My blood pours over my shoulder, the sudden heat stark against my night-chilled flesh.

Kronos could always make me spill without touch. He's inside me, I come onto bloody sand. We have to get up and adjust our clothes before our brothers return; it's not becoming between equals.

He helps me up. I lean against him for a heartbeat as my body heals itself from his assault and he touches my chin. "Brothers," he says.

"Brothers," I agree. He pats my shoulders and walks away. I suppose I'll have to kill him.

/ /

I wake up, still stuffed with blood. Death's still asleep on the bed with a sweet smile on his face.

He looks so peaceful; I don't wake him.

He fights, but I manage his slacks. "What are you doing?" he snarls, but the answer's fairly obvious so I let him figure it out for himself. I push inside him, leaking enough that it doesn't hurt him as much as I want him too. He goes slack against me, submitting, which only makes me angrier. I punch him. He takes that too. The dream made me hot I can't last and he knows it. He viciously moves against me, and I'm left gasping alone in the bed as pulls up and away from me.

"Enjoy that, did you?"

"Who is he?"

Methos blinks, slowly. "Who?"

"The man with the scar."

"Dead."

"You killed him?"

Methos rolls over to the other side of the bed. "A couple times."

I lose track of time. The nights are filled with Methos' blood. I know he goes out during the day; his blood never tastes hungry or tired. I feed from him often enough that the sheer amount of blood makes me sick sometimes. He's made me vomit twice.

There's sex, too. Sex when the shared memories make me too hard to move without it hurting or when Methos forces me to feed when I've had enough. The memories following are sweet and bitter and painful and warm all at the same time. Kronos laughing, Kronos sharing a delicate piece of roasted meat, the taste of his skin more delicious than the bite itself. Kronos breaking from the water of an oasis and water drips from his body. The slaves, both my own and shared ones. Warm willing or unwilling bodies that were expendable and disposable.

Cassandra.

That's a regret. When he feeds me the memory I want to break away and push back, but he holds me to his wrist and I have to take it. He'd actually been in love with girl.

I come out of the haze realizing the muscles of my arms are starting to cramp. I go to move them and the rattle off handcuffs wakes me up. I try to sit up, but I'm cuffed to the bed.

"Stop taking the piss and let me go," I snap. I'm tired and bloated and filled and being restrained is more of an annoyance than anything else.

Methos is shrugging on his jacket. "I'm sorry for this," he says.

I yank on the chains, but there's no give to them. "Let me go," I snarl.

"I told you. I'm sorry," Methos says, and then closes the door behind him as he leaves.

His memories are heavy enough inside me that it takes a while for the panic to break through it. It takes another day for me to even feel unbloated. Another two days pass and I'm not hungry yet. The raking pain's not going to happen for a couple more days. I spend the time staring at the ceiling. Either I get out of this alive and I spend the rest of my days hunting down Methos and removing his liver as it regenerates, or I am going to die like this, withering away to nothing.

Methos should have at least left the tube on.

By the fifth day the need for blood is so thick in my body that I can't move and by the sixth I can actually feel the skin tighten against my bones. When the door opens I can almost pull the cuffs off my wrist. Almost, but not quite.

"Hungry?" Methos asks, coming to the bed. He takes off his jacket and unrolls his sleeve like he's about to give blood. He is about to give blood. He lifts up my head and brings me to the inside of his elbow. "Here, now. Drink."

I let him think me weak. I go to puncture him and he holds himself still for me, and then I tear all the way down arm. Blood splashes hot against my face and I drink the arterial blood. The more I drink the more he bleeds until the bedsheets are soaked in it. He doesn't let me go and this time I don't let him go until there's nothing left in him to give. He falls off the bed, lifeless, and I fall back, not even asleep as the vision grips me.

/ /

The pit.

A well, really. Dry or wet, it doesn't matter to me. I intended on killing Kronos and dumping his body down the well so that Caspian and Silas won't find the body. Only I can't. I lure Kronos away without even giving an excuse; Kronos trusts me implicitly. We embrace, I let Kronos tug on my clothes.

"I like you like this, brother. Acquiescence suits you."

I bow my head, smiling slightly. "Only you can read me so well," I say. He finds me though my shirt and breeches and we rub together slowly. There is no hurry, no danger. It's just him and me, the way it was meant to be. Before the killing and the monotony.

He wants to push me down to the stand, I resist, pushing him against the well's stone edge instead. It's not mortared down and the stones give a little, but the danger appeals to Kronos, I can feel the evidence against my hip. I kiss him, chest against chest he doesn't wonder what my other hand is doing. I take the dagger from the back of my breeches and bring it behind me. Kronos doesn't fight me as I slip it between his ribs, straight into the heart. He dies against me, and even though I intended on cutting off his head, I can't. I don't want Kronos to be a part of me. Not even his quickening. I'm not a fool, though. I leave the knife in as I hoist him over the edge of the well. Let him die and stay dead for all eternity. There's a splash after a long pause. It takes a while to dismantle the well and throw the stones over Kronos' body. / /

I hear him moving around the room; I suppose I took longer to recover, but with the last of Kronos' memories dumped into me, Methos lets me sleep. Kronos is in my dreams, with Dru and with the master and the boxer rebellion, Kronos is in all of it. Watching, gloating.

Kronos is dead, and the presence wasn't even his ghost. It was his memory, nothing more. Methos passed it to me.

When I open my eyes again, the handcuffs are gone and Methos is dressed and ready to go.

"That's it then, Mate?" I ask, reaching for my smokes.

"You were expecting something more serious?" Methos asks.

I close my eyes. "Do I look at all sentimental to you?"

"That's why I picked you."

That makes me smile. "You picked me," I drawl. "You can't be serious."

He opens his mouth to argue but I'm off the bed and pinning him against the wall in the next heartbeat. I break the skin of his neck, sucking hungrily, but the only image I get from him is a tall, long haired man and a young woman suffering. There's no trace of the darkness, of Kronos. I back away and spit.

Methos rubs his neck where I bit him, but other than the few drops of blood on his hand there's no mark on his skin. "If you're ever in Paris, look me up," he says, in a detached clinical voice. "Dinner's on me."

He shuts the door and leaves.


End file.
